


I feel something so right

by SmartKIN



Series: So Damn Beautiful [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (sort of), (when everything was still remotely bearable), Akward Situations, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post Season 2, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmartKIN/pseuds/SmartKIN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His dad sometimes lets him spend the weekend in San Francisco when everything is too much and he just needs to <i>be</i> for a while.</p>
<p>Stiles is not prepared to run into Derek while he’s working killer heels and a hemline that is barely this side of too short.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Story

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably gonna be a series (if you want to read more of this). I really wanted to explore crossdressing as a life choice here and not necessarily as a kink. Being yourself is difficult anyway, but being yourself when you’re different is even harder. I think.
> 
> I just really felt the need to write something like this. It is not my intention to offend anyone, but I haven’t experienced what crossdressing’s like (as a girl you can sort of wear both “boy clothes” and “girl clothes” nowadays without causing a riot), so I might romanticize things or just write them the wrong way. You can always talk to me if you want to!
> 
> Also, my tumblr: [Lloydoholic](http://lloydoholic.tumblr.com)
> 
> EDIT: Beta-read by the wonderful [BethBobby](http://ghostlywhitedirewolf.tumblr.com/)! Thank you for your help, you are amazing!

The bruises Gerard left on his skin had slowly faded away by the time sophomore year came to a close. Stiles didn’t remember how he fared on his exams, could hardly remember taking them at all. The last weeks of school had been a blur of waning adrenalin and growing exhaustion.

 

So many people had died or been through hell and it was sometimes hard for Stiles to compute. One day he would suddenly remember Deputy Sheppard sharing his muffin with him when he was ten years old and the next day he forgot that half of the station had been slaughtered. Attending the funerals of so many people had been torture. Even weeks later he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing images of slashed-open corpses and walls painted in red.

 

The only ‘good’ thing that came from any of it was that his dad was barely home anymore, spending most of his time at the station. If the sheriff were to start asking question right now, Stiles’ resolve to keep his dad away from _all the things that might kill him_ would crumble and he’d spill his guts for sure.

 

Needless to say, really, that he felt the pressure of his double life (triple life?) slowly squeezing the life out of his skinny body. More often than not he was stressed and erratic even though summer holidays had started some time ago. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only a temporary reprieve, the calm before the storm. ( _Hypervigilance_ , the voice of his shady guidance councilor supplied smugly.)

 

Stiles just—he just needed an out, some time away from Beacon Hills, some alone time where he could just _be_ without stressing himself out over holding up appearances.

 

It didn’t take very long to convince his dad. Ever since Stiles had started high school and had become more... aware of himself, his dad had sometimes let him spend the day in San Francisco, or more recently even the weekend.

 

The sheriff understood his need to let go, to act out this private side of himself that no one ever got to see, not ever.

 

Well.

 

His dad knew, of course, but Stiles didn’t exactly rub it in his face. And Scott had a vague sort of awareness that came from growing up together. He just knew, even though it wasn’t a conscious knowledge most of the time.

 

Stiles didn’t think his best friend would judge him, even if he were to openly express this secret part of himself. That didn’t mean he felt confident enough to be open about it in front of everybody. People were always open-minded as long as they weren’t confronted with difference.

 

That was the reason why he was currently walking down a semi-busy street right in the heart of San Francisco, feeling those invisible rules and self-imposed chains fall away with every step he took.

 

Awareness of his body swept over him like the incoming tide, he experienced every movement of his limbs like he had just awoken from a daze. It was an exhilarating feeling. Nobody knew who he was, he could take a stroll in peace, enjoying the sun warming his skin like everybody else, without fear of being ridiculed, of hurting his dad’s reputation, of becoming even more of a laughingstock at school.

 

Stiles took a deep, freeing breath and reveled in the appreciating once-over he received from a guy walking by.

 

This was a feeling he had missed—looking beautiful, even if only to himself.

 

The outfit he had chosen didn’t hide the fact that he was very much a boy. His chest was too flat and his frame too angular, there was no semblance of female curves supporting his getup. On the other hand, his narrow shoulders and hips lent themselves perfectly for a venture such as this. He would never be as muscular as his furry friends and for once he wasn’t bitter about that.

 

The dress he had picked out this morning was the shade of bright red that made him look healthy and full of life, and showed off his long, smooth legs. He simply loved how his hemline stretched across his thighs when he walked, how the fabric caressed his skin and hugged every line of his body.

 

He shivered slightly as the heady sensation of _feeling_ beautiful finally settled in.

 

Sometimes, when he felt depressed and needed to _see_ , he would carefully shave his legs, slip into a pair of high heels and sit on his bed dressed in nothing but his underwear, just staring at his outstretched limbs with his heart thumping loudly in chest. He loved how women’s shoes looked on him, loved the curves of his insteps, his ankles, loved the long lines of his lower legs, even his knobbly knees, his firm thighs. After hours of simply observing how the sunlight cast patterns upon his pale skin he would feel a little bit better about himself, could believe that he would survive another week.

 

And sometimes he would just disappear in his head and remember the times when he was little and his mom would buy him those pretty sundresses with the flowery prints that he just _needed to have_ and he would wear them outside and spin around and around in circles, watching the dress twirl around him until he got dizzy from both joy and vertigo.

 

They had never talked about it, but his mom had to have known what it meant. She had let him be himself and had loved him for it and he really missed her. She would understand, now, when no one else seemed to be able to.

 

But Stiles didn’t think of his mother as he strolled down the sidewalk, his gait no longer coltish, but rather fueled by growing self-confidence. (And how ironic was it that he would trip over his own two feet wearing trainers, but had perfect balance in high heels?)

 

The gentle curls of his wig bounced in time to his springy step. He didn’t always wear wigs when he dressed up like this, but today he wanted to feel heavy strands of hair frame his face and cascade over his shoulders.

 

Stiles felt good, was the thing.

 

He felt really good and he was still alive to enjoy this—wearing a fucking dress because he wanted to—and just be this weirdo kid for a day, doing some shopping and going to the park, eating some ice cream and maybe hitting the cinema later if he felt like it.

 

For a moment he slowed down, distracted by a book store on the other side of the road that looked promising—all second-hand volumes and faded covers, the smell of dust and age clinging to brittle pages—when somebody unexpectedly called his name.

 

“Stiles?”

 

He stumbled over his heels and whirled his head around, coming face to face with Derek Hale, brooding lonewolf extraordinaire.

 

“D-Derek,” he stammered, his heart picking up a rabbit-quick pace.

 

Derek looked at him in surprise, blue eyes moving searchingly over his face—the rouge dusting his cheeks (hiding a sudden pale hue), the cherry red lips, the brown curls falling gently onto his narrow shoulders.

 

“What are you doing here?” the wolf asked quietly and didn’t comment on his appearance.

 

“Just—just chillin’,” he spluttered nervously, his words failing him just as his breaths turned into short gasps. He couldn’t help but stare at Derek with wide eyes, the momentary shock giving way to the well-trodden sensation of panic, his old friend.

 

His mind went into over-drive and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe and why was this happening, this wasn’t supposed to happen nobody was supposed to see this and he was freaking out and _thiswasnotsupposedtohappen_.

 

Suddenly Derek invaded his personal space, broad hands gripping Stiles’ arms and body leaning forward, almost curling around him and thereby creating a shaky illusion of privacy. Stiles hardly noticed the stares they received from passers-by. His vision was blurred and spotty and he did his best not to faint, thankful for Derek’s firm grip.

 

“Breathe, Stiles,” whispered the wolf. “It’s okay, just breathe.”

 

Stiles fixed his attention to Derek’s lips, watched as the older man kept mumbling nonsensical things to calm Stiles down.

 

His blood pulsed loudly in his ears, drowning out the city’s noise all around them.

 

He took a shaky breath, sucking air into his constricting lungs and then, upon Derek’s soft encouragements, another one.

 

Of all the people to see him like this, why did it have to be Derek frigging Hale? The gruff and sometimes stand-offish werewolf who preferred to dress in leather and varying shades of black?

 

He gulped in some more air and slowly managed to win back control over his body.

 

Derek squeezed his arms and after a lingering moment let go of him. Stiles blinked owlishly and stared warily at the man.

 

Derek stuffed his hands into the pockets of his always present leather jacket—and oh god, it was summer, no need for jackets whatsoever—and suddenly seemed to be rather uncomfortable.

 

Stiles swallowed and started to cross his arms, before he aborted the movement and let them fall back to his sides. His fingers twitched with nervous energy and he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. The silence between them was starting to get to him.

 

Derek huffed and drew his eyebrows together.

 

“Let me buy you coffee,” the werewolf grunted.

 

Stiles wariness morphed into wonderment. What?

 

“S-sure,” he ended up agreeing before he even realized what he was doing and Derek nodded stiffly.

 

Then the Alpha turned around and started walking. After a beat, Stiles followed him in a sedated pace, his heels tapping loudly against the pavement. His eyes were fixed on Derek’s back as they walked and he wondered how he had ended up here, getting coffee with Beacon Hills’ resident alpha werewolf. In drag.

 

He wished he had more time to ponder life’s conundrums, but Derek simply picked the first coffee shop they happened across. With a brief glance over his shoulder—probably making sure that Stiles had no intention of changing his mind and running off or something—the wolf chose a table that was only partly shadowed by the huge parasol in front of the café.

 

Derek sat down in the shade, making Stiles pick one of the sunlit spots.

 

Stiles rolled his eyes and sat down, crossing his legs dainty as he did so. For a moment, Derek’s gaze traveled over his body all the way down to his high heels, before catching himself and flagging down a waiter. Stiles’ heart beat a bit faster in his chest. Had Derek seriously just checked him out? Or was it because he was being more freakish than usual?

 

Stiles was given no chance to collect himself—Derek brusquely ordered for the both of them.

 

“You know my coffee order?” he asked in surprise and wondered whether he had ever consumed coffee in front of the other man.

 

“It’s not that complicated,” Derek shot back flippantly.

 

Stiles smiled.

 

“You’re such a stalker,” he informed the wolf and felt a unknown kind of fondness course through him.

 

They didn’t say anything else until the waiter had returned with their drinks. Stiles took advantage of this short reprieve to savor the sun warming his skin. He tried to regain some of the inner peace he had felt before he had run into Derek.

 

The waiter returned and soon left them to their own devices and Stiles took a sip of his coffee—black, no sugar. The hot, bitter liquid hit his taste-buds like a freight-train, distracting him from his current situation. This was good stuff. Maybe Derek hadn’t picked this café at random after all.

 

He was beginning to think that they would spend their entire afternoon in silence when he was suddenly confronted with Derek’s impossibly intense gaze.

 

After another second the werewolf started talking in that non-sequitur way of his.

 

“I have friends—in New York,” the wolf explained haltingly, as if it was difficult to drag the words out of himself.

 

Stiles bit his tongue to refrain from asking stupid questions. They had never really talked about their personal lives before, seeing as there was little time in between almost dying and defeating the bad guys. Curiosity started to burn its way through his veins.

 

“Some of them... they like to dress in drag,” Derek rolled his eyes before continuing. “You wouldn’t believe the outfits they have in their closets. It’s--” he dragged a hand through his hair, “it’s a colorful bunch.”

 

Stiles watched Derek in fascination. Everything about this situation was so different from their usual encounters, the wall-slamming and constant growling and running for their lives.

 

“I have been around for some of their issues and questions,” the wolf rumbled low in his throat. Then he offered something that left Stiles’ head reeling: “If you want to talk about it...”

 

Stiles’ eyes widened.

 

His heart rate picked up and his shoulders stiffened. He mulled this over in his mind. No one had ever offered to talk about it, not really (and with no one he meant his dad, because it wasn’t like he had told anyone else about this). At that moment he realized that he _had never talked about this_. Not even online. He didn’t know if he felt comfortable doing so now.

 

He could just walk away from this. Derek had made an offer, but Stiles could refuse if he wanted to.

 

If he did refuse, though, Stiles instinctively knew, he would probably never see another glimpse of this new Derek. The wolf had opened up to him even though he could have ignored the whole thing.

 

Stiles realized that he wanted to get to know this side of Derek, wanted Derek to tell him more about his friends, his life in New York, anything really.

 

He looked down and idly touched the rim of his coffee cup with fluttering fingers.

 

“I’ve never talked to anyone about this,” he acknowledged after a moment and felt Derek watching him. “I don’t know. Beacon Hills may be tolerant—more so than other places—and, uh, Danny has probably never been bullied because of his sexuality or something, but I didn’t really want to push my luck, you know?”

 

Across from him Derek nodded stiffly.

 

“It’s not--” he bit his lip, unsure how to put his thoughts into strings of words that made sense.

 

“I don’t want to be a girl,” he said at last. “That’s not it. I just feel... more comfortable like this. More centered. More myself?”

 

He shook his head and studied his nail polish.

 

“I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like, when I dress like this and put it all out there, put out there what is inside of me, my head is more quiet. I can just _be_ myself and don’t have the urge to go up the wall all the time.”

 

Derek made a noise in the back of his throat, indicating that he was listening and took a sip of his coffee. It was all very civilized.

 

“It’s also,” Stiles continued slowly. “I don’t know, an escape? Maybe. Nobody knows, so when I do this I can pretend I’m not a disappointing son o-or the fragile human sidekick to Scott’s superhero act. It’s like... the crap belongs to somebody else.”

 

Stiles gulped down some coffee and glanced briefly at Derek, who was still watching him intently.

 

It was embarrassing to talk about his feelings. He usually didn’t. He deflected and talked about things that either exaggerated his feelings in a way that made them seem ridiculous or unbelievable or distracted from them entirely.

 

It wasn’t _just_ embarrassing, though.

 

He realized that talking about it made him feel lighter inside.

 

“I feel... aware of myself. My body, mostly, but also _myself_. It’s like I’m suddenly awake after having spent my whole life sleeping...” he trailed off and left it at that, out of words.

 

Derek didn’t offer any advice, but then, he hadn’t voiced any questions.

 

They finished their coffee in companionable silence and when they were done, Derek paid the bill and they left the café.

 

After a couple of feet they stopped and looked at each other, unsure of how to proceed.

 

Things were quickly becoming more awkward than usual, even for Stiles.

 

Hell no, he thought.

 

“There is this book store I wanted to check out,” he informed the wolf, not yet ready to leave the other’s company.

 

Derek nodded but didn’t make a move to accompany him.

 

Stiles suppressed a fond smile.

 

“You coming?”

 

 


	2. Art

Please have a look at these wonderful artworks by [onthemeander](http://onthemeander.tumblr.com/), you can reblog it [here](http://onthemeander.tumblr.com/post/142363607113/i-just-read-smartkins-story-i-feel-something-so)~ This is amazing, I'm floored it's so gorgeous!

 


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